


Comb

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Ficlet, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 22:44:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3995905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a spell, Legolas takes care of a young Thranduil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comb

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “I would like to see Legolas taking care of a de-aged Thranduil (I would prefer him to be similar to human age between 5 and 10 years old), and having to endure an elfling who's quite mischievous but has his own nightmares. Thranduil does not remember his adult years. Thranduil will ask for his father when he has nightmares and that breaks Legolas' heart. Basically a father-son fluff with role reversal. And Legolas has better understanding of his father after this experience.” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=21717483#t21717483).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He was haughty for most of the day, until around mid-evening, where he ordered Tauriel to bring him cake and she obliged. 

From there on out, he become a little terror, running up and down the steps and leaping over balconies and forcing Legolas to take after him like an elk in a stampede. Sometimes, Thranduil would even look over his shoulder with a wicked little look on his newly-youthful features, taunting Legolas via a stuck out tongue. The first time Legolas witnessed it, he tripped to a halt in shock. Now, he’s trying to stay positive—at least when they do fix this crazy spell, he’ll always be able to picture his stoic father this way and _laugh_.

It’s left Thranduil’s hair a mess, running through the wind. It was beautifully brushed in the beginning, rod-straight and silky-smooth down his back, white-blond, like his son’s. Now it’s matted every which way, and he grunts in irritation each time Legolas brings the brush over his palms. 

Thranduil takes it anyway, little warrior that he is. They’ve retired to his quarters for the night, perched on his bed, far too big for the tiny creature he’s become. His posture is rigid, not naturally so but clearly trying to impress. His memories didn’t transfer with his mind. He remembers nothing of his adult life, but he does know that he’s a _prince_ , and he acts far worse than Legolas ever did. Or at least, what he remembers of himself. His father’s never complained. But his father never talks about Legolas’ childhood much at all.

Then Thranduil asks, not for the first time, “When is father coming home?”

It always irks Legolas to hear that. He wants to say, _he isn’t, but your son is right here_ , but he doesn’t want to upset a child so young that he cares for so dearly. If anything, Thranduil has been easier to connect with in the week he’s been transformed, although not so easy to take care of. Legolas replies with a vague, “Soon.” He can only hope they’ll fix this enchantment before more explanations are needed. He’s already contacted every magical person he can think of, and Mithrandir, at least, has been working nonstop on the problem. Legolas would go himself to seek more help and answers, but someone must sit on the throne in the king’s absence, and someone must brush that little king’s hair. 

When it’s as tangle-free as it’s going to get, Legolas puts the brush down and sweeps all the golden strands over his father’s tiny shoulders. Thranduil looks back, icy eyes turned wide with innocence, and he asks, “Can I have braids in it, like yours?”

Legolas can’t stop a smile from twisting his mouth. He remembers once, not so long ago, when an argument over his ‘too-adventurous’ tendencies left his father calling him a _tramp_ for such frivolities as gaudy braids. It had shocked Legolas at the time, but now it only makes him want to laugh. His father isn’t so unreachable as he used to be, strangely enough. 

Braids are common, especially among the young and the merry. Legolas divides thin strands at the side of Thranduil’s head and twists them in behind his little pointed ear, while Thranduil sits with his legs crossed and tries not to fidget. Special robes have been made for him, silver and luxurious, like those he usually wears. But Legolas is in more common, greener attire, now that he has no one to judge him for it. It doesn’t take Legolas long to finish his handiwork, though Thranduil asks immediately, “And the other side?”

Legolas obediently shifts to work on Thranduil’s other side, and after a moment’s pause, Thranduil asks, “Can I have two behind each ear, like you?”

“Your scalp is not yet big enough,” Legolas muses, though in truth, it’s mostly that he’s tired. It seems as though all of Thranduil’s languid, static poses in the last few years have bottled up into a pit of energy, and today, Thranduil bubbled over with it. Their people do love to walk among the stars, but not after long, tiring days with little ones pulling at their arms. 

And it’s _emotionally exhausting_ on top of that. There are moments when it’s a veiled blessing: when Thranduil will smile wider than he ever would as an adult, or come barreling into Legolas’ arms for a tight hug. But there are other moments where his own father will look at him with _no recognition at all,_ and it’s like all of Legolas’ worst fears have finally come true. 

He misses the look of his true father’s face, too. Even if it rarely looked at him with more than a distant scowl. Finishing the second braid is bittersweet. It’s always difficult to leave Thranduil like this: displaced in time and vulnerable.

Before Legolas can say goodnight, Thranduil looks over his shoulder again to ask, “Can we get more water?”

Legolas’ eyebrows knit together. He doesn’t understand. “We just went for water.”

“But I have grown thirsty again.”

“If you drink anymore you will not sleep through the night.”

“Before you go, can you tell me a story?”

Tired, Legolas sighs. He’s barely exhaled before he catches the almost-desperate flicker in Thranduil’s eyes. Peering harder at him, Legolas realizes slowly, “You are stalling.” Thranduil instantly looks stricken, clearly caught, and Legolas insists, “You must sleep.”

Thranduil merely switches tactics. His face twists into a pout, which looks wholly uncharacteristic on his regal features, even young as they are. He insists right back, “but I don’t _want_ to.”

He didn’t want to come down from an elk twice his size in the gardens either, but it, like this, was a necessity. Legolas withdraws all the same, slipping over the edge of the bed and standing. He walks along the side of it, reaching the head to peel back the blankets and pat the pillows. Thranduil craws towards him but whines, “Galion would let me stay up late!”

“That is because Galion does not have the courage to stand up to little princes,” Legolas answers, having no such reservations himself. “But I do not bow so easily.”

“You should,” Thranduil scoffs. He slips under the covers in his soft robes, already readied for bed, and Legolas brings the covers up, tucking him in. “I will be the king some day, you know, and you are just some lowly nursemaid to me!”

Legolas only hesitates briefly. He isn’t particularly insulted by the accusation, but it does _hurt_ every reminder he gets that his father doesn’t _know_ him. He forces himself to continue smoothing down the blankets, and then he bends to press a kiss to Thranduil’s forehead. Something possesses him to murmur, “Good night, my little leaf.” He hasn’t heard that phrase in _decades_.

Legolas walks around the perimeter of the room before he leaves, blowing out candles. He has his hand on the handle when he hears the blankets tossed away, and he looks back to see Thranduil leaping off the mattress. Thranduil comes running straight for him, latching around his middle before he can do anything to move. Short arms loop around his waist, a face buried in his stomach, and Legolas is forced to soothingly stroke his father’s head and ask, “What is it?”

Thranduil hesitates before he mumbles, “Nightmares.” It sounds like an ashamed admission: a one-word confession. But Legolas understands. The Greenwood is as full of horrors as it is beauty, and he’s had his own nightmares from time to time. But Thranduil’s fear suggests a more constant torment, and Legolas can only wonder if it’s truly nightmares he faces or shrouded memories of the wars he’s already fought and the losses he’s already suffered. Still tucked away, Thranduil mutters miserably, “I want my father.”

It cuts at Legolas’ heart. He wishes he could do that for this tiny, fragile creature. As distant as Thranduil’s been, Legolas has always found solace in his arms. Legolas will have a new understanding after this, he thinks; they really aren’t so different after all. 

Bending down, Legolas scoops the child into his arms, and Thranduil curls against him, holding onto his neck and shoulders and hiding in his hair. “You can come sleep with me, if you behave yourself,” Legolas sighs, to which Thranduil nods. It takes a bit of work to shuffle him over enough to reach for the handle, but Legolas manages to get the doors open. 

When they’re in the dark hallway, Thranduil whispers, “I’m sorry I called you a lowly nursemaid.”

“A true nursemaid would put me to shame,” Legolas replies simply. As he turns down the hall, he tries to remember the last time he slept by his father’s side to ward the darkness away. To make him feel safe. Thranduil was always good at that. 

Thranduil’s always loved him, he knows, if only because he can now see it in this tiny prince’s eyes, hiding, perhaps, a tiny glimmer of _recognition._


End file.
